Triumph in the Great Game
by Amledo
Summary: My take on the end of the Great Game...how it should be. Sherlock/John very light and cute.


(A/N: Given the success of my first foray into this fandom, I feel less afraid of posting this one. I don't know when this will be up because I've been having huge issues with my computer, but for now, let's just be happy that I did this. This is Sherlock/John so don't freak out when it happens. Nothing sexually graphic, spoilers for _The Great Game_. I don't own Sherlock Holmes or BBC Sherlock.)

Triumph in the Great Game

"Are you okay Sherlock?" John asked carefully. He had been an Army Doctor after all, and Sherlock was usually the unflappable sort. Never before had the older man seen such an expression on his flatmate's face, and he wasn't sure he wanted to ever again. Sherlock, however, didn't respond, instead opting to remain as he had been, stock still, like a statue, his body rigid with some strange energy, his fists balled and jaw visibly clenched. On closer inspection, John became aware of the fact that those impressive grey-blue eyes were nearly black with blown pupils, and Sherlock's breathing came in great heaving gulps.

It was a standard start to an anxiety attack, but Sherlock was far from the standard man and John, having just lived through Hell, wasn't sure he wanted to be there when that bomb detonated. _Bomb. Haha bomb. _ And with that John burst out in uncontrollable panic fueled laughter. Everyone at the pool paused, if only for a moment, to consider the blonde man in the orange blanket before writing it off as shock. What was more unexpected was tall, dark Sherlock joining in a few seconds later.

"You're insane," the Doctor said softly, choking on his laughter, his hand finding Sherlock's bicep for a quick pat in camaraderie.

"You started laughing first," Sherlock said through a giggle that he would later deny ever uttering and the uproarious laughter continued until Mycroft strolled up and looking bored and perhaps a little annoyed, tapped his umbrella on the floor for their attention.

"Those were real, actual missile plans that you gave up. Just so you know. Decades old of course, but real no less Sherlock," Mycroft intoned, calling on all of his inner calm and waiting as John and Sherlock sobered slightly. Their chuckles subsided, and Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to appear calmer than he actually was.

"Yes well…I had assumed as much. I had to try to buy some time while _your_ men got here to bail us out. You realize that your delay nearly cost me my…er John. He's my friend, only one I've got. Or are you just upset that he declined to spy…" Sherlock's agitation was still obvious, and to save his brother more embarrassment, Mycroft cut him off.

"We arrived exactly when we meant to. You are both alive aren't you?" he glanced between the pair with a barely detectable wolfish smile. "So I was right. How delightful. Well, I'll leave you to your realizations. Mr. Moriarty won't lock himself up," the older man concluded with a wave of his hand and a twirl of his umbrella, pivoting on his foot and retreating. John watched him go; feeling very much as though a large weight of knowledge had been placed on his mind in that moment.

After answering everyone's questions twice, John and Sherlock were on their way home, on foot. Mycroft and Lestrade had offered rides but both men had needed to work off the nervous energy. John's mind brought him up short, and he drew his orange blanket more tightly around himself as a memory was called to the forefront of his thoughts. _Can we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week? _ Mycroft's words upon their first meeting. Suddenly, in the context of that night, the world made a bit more sense.

"Oh. Oh. _Oh,_" John said ineloquently, the shock and fear caused by the poolside encounter seemed to pale in comparison. It quite suddenly didn't matter that he and Sherlock had been ready to die together in an explosion or a hail of gunfire to take Moriarty down. It didn't matter that he'd been abducted and strapped into a bomb vest mere moments after leaving Sarah's place carrying the weight of a break-up. It didn't matter because Sherlock was there, studying him with those brilliant eyes, arms hung relaxed at his sides, and everything about him was welcoming.

"Are you really that surprised John?" the taller man asked with a small twitch at the corners of his lips, indicating the start of a smile. John's only response at first was a mute shaking of his head. No, it was not his so surprising that Sherlock had worked out where John's heart lie before John himself, but that Sherlock was willing and able to reciprocate. He had come to believe his flatmate's line about being married to his work and to doubt his capacity for comprehending normal human emotions.

"No," John answered at last, an honest understanding occurring to him, that Sherlock had always treated him differently, as though he was important. A smile spread over his lips as he reached for the hand that Sherlock offered. Their fingers entwined and shoulders pressed together, they made their way home, a very different pair than they had left. Sherlock smiled viciously to himself, he had won Moriarty's game and claimed the greatest of prizes.

(A/N: Well there was my take on how the pool scene should end. I adamantly refuse to accept the idea that Mycroft isn't a knight in shining armor with Lestrade at his side.)


End file.
